When Salvation Doesn't Come
by GloriousBlackout
Summary: After being kidnapped by a particularly violent group of criminals, John is forced to consider how far he'll go in order to save Sherlock.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N ****I probably shouldn't be getting back into the habit of writing so close to exam time but oh well... I hope you enjoy! Any feedback is welcome.**

**Rated T for general violence and swearing.**

_Disclaimer: I still own nothing_

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John hears the approaching footsteps long before the door slides open. These particular kidnappers are a boisterous lot at the best of times and silence is hardly their forte, which makes him question how they've gone unnoticed for so long. That said, he's grateful for the forewarning. It allows him to sit up relatively straight and set his expression into a cold, hard mask - looking as defiant as a man chained by the ankles can ever hope to appear.

Predictably the door is forced open and the limp form of Sherlock is shoved in John's direction, landing in a heap on the floor while the men (three of them, John counts, although the harsh light from the corridor makes it hard to tell) laugh as if it's the funniest thing they've ever seen. John cringes on behalf of his friend when he sees the man curl into a foetal position out of habit, but he does not make a move yet. He knows that such open displays of affection are what these thugs crave and he stopped giving them the satisfaction ages ago.

The natural leader, an unnervingly large man with a face that looks like the skin is being stretched to its limit just to cover it, winks in John's direction before turning away with a final "Same time tomorrow, eh lads?" and the harsh slam of the door. For the few seconds it takes for the lock to click and the loud noises to fade away into the distance, John pictures the many ways he will kill the man if (when) he is ever given the chance.

This is their routine. In the morning they'll be awoken by the scrape of the door and an overly joyous "Rise and shine, boys!" Then two things generally happen. They slide John some lukewarm water and a bowl of what he assumes to be broth, and they drag Sherlock away to god knows where. Around six hours later, they return with an exhausted, hurt detective and expressions of satisfaction so sickening they sometimes disturb John more than his friend's injuries.

This is not Moriarty's doing. As much as he hates to admit it, John has become familiar enough with the man to recognise his particular flair. Calling his kidnapping efforts entertaining is likely pushing it, but they're undoubtedly as intriguing as they are terrifying. This current set-up is far too mindlessly vicious to have the consulting criminal's fingerprints all over it. Instead it seems to be the doing of a group of thugs intent on milking what must be a golden opportunity for all it's worth.

John despises them. At least with Moriarty he can begrudgingly admit that he admires the man's strategy. These men are just brutal for the sake of it.

He slides over to Sherlock's prone form, just as he always does, and takes the man into his arms with as much care as he is able to administer. Sherlock flinches away from him on instinct and John feels a stab of nausea at the sight but promptly ignores it. With his usual patience he is able to get his friend to recognise the safety of his calloused hands and the softer tone of his voice as he whispers comforting nothings in his ear and holds him close.

Much as he'd like to stifle his doctor's instincts in situations like this, he cannot help but scan for the recent injuries dealt to his friend, although the distinction between old and new has blurred significantly of late. A quick once-over unearths a mild concussion and suspected broken wrist; Sherlock's left hand dangles by his side at an odd angle but if it pains him he does not complain.

John's hands finally reach the thready pulse in Sherlock's neck and he notes the cold clamminess of his practically translucent skin. His own heart sinks at the growing knowledge that his best friend is slipping away from him. Without medical attention he is unlikely to last another week, and that time will be lessened further if they insist on dragging him through hell day by day.

In the early days – before Sherlock started to break and they could still huddle together and speak of freedom – John half expected Mycroft to arrive out of the blue and act as their salvation. After being badgered by paramedics and providing Lestrade with a hurried statement, they'd have gone home to lick their wounds and John would have hidden his smile as Sherlock fumed over Mycroft acting as rescuer and it would have been fine, all fine…

God, how long has it been since he'd allowed himself to think of that possibility? A month, perhaps? Longer? Initially he tried to count the days to keep ahold of some form of reality but that habit had long since stopped once he realised that each day was a repeat of the last and that there was no longer anything worth counting down to.

Sherlock shudders and moans slightly in his arms, breaking John out of his reverie. When he checks his friend, however, he finds him to be practically catatonic; his eyes fixed on a damp patch on the ground yet looking disturbingly empty. John briefly feels a surge of unreasonable anger at Sherlock for abandoning him alone in this nightmare but he knows deep down that he has no right to complain about that. He has been left relatively unscathed besides a few beatings – nothing he can't handle. The same cannot be said for Sherlock. The man has every right to escape within the depths of his mind for a brief respite, given all he's endured.

John leaves him to his rest and waits out of habit. Waits for Sherlock to come back to himself - for that wonderful spark of life may be buried deeply but it's still burning. He waits for the sudden flinch that indicates a return to the present and a weak but unmistakeable 'John?' uttered against the crook of his neck. It is an almost comforting routine, one of the few occurrences he can still rely on, and while having to face what has happened to Sherlock is far from pleasant, it at least gives John the illusion of being somewhat useful.

But the whisper does not come, not today. Sherlock remains far away and beyond John's limited reach, and all the doctor can do is sit uselessly for hours on end waiting for a return that seems increasingly unlikely. His arms tighten around his friend's emaciated frame and he buries his face in those limp curls to smother the threat of sobs and he feels Sherlock instinctively lean closer to his warmth without showing any other signs of awareness.

John does not sleep that night. His rest has become increasingly disturbed of late anyway but today he doesn't even bother trying. There is no point, not when he'll be awoken to them tearing Sherlock from his arms all over again. He wonders how much satisfaction they can possibly get out of torturing him when he's so uncooperative, but then, they're hardly fussy. Anything they can tear apart they will; he can picture their childhoods filled with peeling the legs from spiders and frying ants with magnifying glasses. Besides, hurting Sherlock has never been the sole intention. They thirst for John's reaction almost as much as they do for blood.

_Sadistic fucks._

It's when the sunlight begins to stream in through the high-barred windows that John finally allows himself to comprehend the awful decision he'd put off for so long. A long time ago (or a month, he couldn't tell) they'd thrown him a loaded gun with one bullet along with an unconscious Sherlock. The intent was clear. They were telling him that this routine of dragging Sherlock away only to make him suffer was never going to stop; that that bullet was the only way out. Sherlock hadn't woken that night, which on reflection was probably intentional, and John had been left to cradle the gun and ponder. It was around that time that he accepted that help wasn't coming – that the entirety of his future was this room and the sight of his best friend growing weaker and weaker, and that knowledge had come so close to forcing him to pull the trigger while the man slept at his side.

However, he hadn't been able to do it. Dawn broke and they came once again for Sherlock (considerably more armed than usual, John had noticed with slight amusement) and they'd wrestled the gun from his hands and never returned it again. John had had his chance and he'd refused. He'd almost been proud of that knowledge at the time, back when Sherlock was still somewhat his usual self.

Now though, he can't help but wonder. Something has changed, a part of the routine has cracked and Sherlock did not wake for him last night. How much longer do they expect him to break before they grow bored of him? John doesn't know. He doesn't particularly want to think about it. But they'll be coming for Sherlock again within the hour and the man's far too weak to be able to deal with another bout today and all John can hear frantically racing through his mind is _you can do it you can save him why won't you you coward…_

His grip on Sherlock tightens and the clinical part of his mind supplies a list of all the ways in which he can kill the man in his arms relatively painlessly and if the situation were not so desperate, John may have laughed at the absurdity of it all.

A small whine emanates from Sherlock's throat and John's resolve wavers. This is not something he wants to do. He does not want to be left alone and he does not want to lose his best friend – the best man he has ever known – and he does not want to admit that all hope for the future died long ago. And yet none of that matters because their situation truly is that hopeless. He can spare Sherlock from their brutality, and right now that's the only kindness he's remotely capable of offering. John loathes himself for how easily he can admit that, but it's the truth.

He can't let them take Sherlock away from him again, nor will he let Sherlock endure another day of that pain.

John's shaking hands cradle Sherlock's neck and rest against his pulse point for a few moments. The other man doesn't acknowledge him; his eyes slipped shut sometime in the night and he's far too weak to neglect any rest available to him. John plants a soft kiss onto his forehead and lets his lips linger on the cool skin as he gathers the necessary strength. Already he can feel tears gathering in his eyes.

"It's alright Sherlock," he whispers, his voice cracking despite his attempt at control. "I've got you, it's alright."

He wastes one more second watching as Sherlock's eyelids flutter in faint acknowledgement of John's words, before his grip jerks sharply to the left.

The crack echoes around the room like an accusation and only then does John allow himself to sob.

Sherlock slumps bonelessly against him and John cradles him to his chest with a carelessness he couldn't afford mere moments ago, repeating those last words over and over in a bid to convince himself as much as the unhearing man in his arms.

_It's alright now_ he thinks, because it is. _It's over._

It is not long before his attention is stolen by the sounds of panicked activity from outside. The door slides open and the room fills with unnatural light and for one moment, one _sickening _moment, John thinks the cavalry have arrived for them. He sags with ridiculous relief when it is not Mycroft but some unnamed thug that bursts through the door and despite his gnawing grief, he cannot help but feel satisfaction as the man loses it before him. The sight of Sherlock's limp body brings forth a vicious snarl and a slew of swear words that John pays little attention to. Instead he finds himself fixated on just how comically red the man's face is becoming.

The thug is joined by two of his cronies, both of whom look simultaneously enraged and terrified, and John barely registers the removal of his chains and being roughly manhandled out of the room because at least they no longer have the option of doing that to Sherlock. It's only when the door slams shut behind him that he realises he never got to see his friend one last time and he's not quite sure how to feel about that so he settles for feeling nothing at all. After all, nothing really matters anymore. Not when Sherlock is gone (Gone? Saved? He can't quite tell) and he's surrounded by heavily-muscled men who all look like they'll happily tear out his insides. He can't quite restrain his giggle as he realises that they just might do that.

_What do you know?_ John thinks with a hint of mirth. _They've finally decided it's my turn._

He isn't surprised to find that he doesn't care.


	2. Epilogue

**A/N As some people have expressed an interest in a continuation of this, here's an epilogue dealing with the aftermath. I hope you enjoy (if that's the right word) and thanks for reading :)**

_**Disclaimer: I still own nothing**_

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The hospital room was a sickeningly clean white that still seemed fake to John after spending months in shadow. Rhythmic beeping from the machines tied down to his body contributed to a monotony he'd hoped he'd escaped and cards from people he hadn't seen or thought about in months littered his bedside table, unopened alongside withering flowers.

John paid no attention to his sterile surroundings; instead he looked out at the grey world beyond his window, following raindrops as they wandered aimlessly along the glass. The overcast skies and lashing rain cast London in a hideous light but John had missed the view of the outside world so much he could lie there and watch it for hours. Back in his cell, all of his days had been black with small streams of light from windows too high to offer much of a view. It had been a long time since he'd had the chance to see rain.

In fact, it had been a long time since he'd seen anything but the four walls of his cell and the relentless fists of men much larger than himself. If he was grateful for one thing it was that his captors had been unimaginative; their torture consisted of familiar beatings but little of the horrific ideas that had crossed John's mind as he watched Sherlock be returned from the same treatment. No knives slicing flesh, no burning or freezing or amputations. Just beatings that he knew would kill him eventually but, on their own, were nothing he hadn't faced before. Their malicious words highlighting what they'd done to Sherlock before they'd set their sights on John _(before I killed him)_ might have hurt more if he hadn't learned to block them out long ago and any attempt to break his mind was pointless as his previous desperation had covered that already.

John would have to recover from that now that he was free. He didn't want his rescuer's late arrival to be entirely pointless, he wanted there to be something worthwhile in his freedom. But it was difficult to grasp reality when he'd spent long months escaping it and had learned to embrace dreams instead of running from them.

_Your name is Doctor John Watson, _he reminded himself in the moments where he could feel himself slipping away. _You worked as an army doctor. You like going to the pub with Greg and embrace danger more than you should. You have a sister called Harry and had a wife called Mary. She's gone now. Your best friend is Sherlock Holmes. He's gone too..._

A click from one of the machines alerted him to the fact that his morphine levels were being increased again and he felt the familiar wooziness that he'd grown to despise follow soon after. Pain had haunted him for so long that he minded it a lot less than he did the sensation of losing his senses, but the doctors paid little heed to his protests. He wondered if he should blame Mycroft for that but he'd barely seen the man since his prison had been ransacked and his captors arrested. Even then it had been Lestrade, not Mycroft, who had been the one to save him while John had clutched at his old friend like a pitiful child.

Lestrade had lingered long after the day of the rescue, to John's relief. He'd been hysterical in those early days, unused to the sensation of hands touching him that weren't there to hurt, and Lestrade being a grounding influence had been essential from the moment the door to his cell had opened to reveal him. The man had hidden his horror quickly, given John all of his attention despite his frantic confusion and had whispered comforting nothings as they made their way to that mythical outside world. _"You're alright now, we've got you, Mycroft says they'll never hurt anyone again...watch the step, that's it, not far now... it's __br__ight outside if you need to close your eyes..."_

John vaguely remembered the man waiting wearily by his bedside during his first days in hospital but he'd been so delirious that any memories of that time blended together messily. He recalled thinking that the Detective Inspector's hair had become somehow greyer and his eyes now sported permanent bags, but morphine claimed him before John could take in any more than that and eventually work had taken Lestrade away from him as well.

He'd been mostly alone since besides the comings and goings of nurses and doctors. He considered that was for the best; he couldn't imagine Mrs Hudson or sweet young Molly seeing him like this and being able to treat him like he wasn't some broken thing. John knew he was much thinner than he'd been, that lingering bruises had discoloured the skin on his arms, chest and face and that he'd probably aged several years in the span of a few months. He didn't need the reminder reflected in wide, sad eyes.

A sharp knock on the door drew his attention away from the rain-spattered window and he reluctantly turned his head to see Mycroft finally waiting for him, looking immaculate as always in a black three-piece suit; umbrella held carelessly in one hand while the other rested lightly on the doorknob. His face held none of the horror or pity that was usually thrown John's way these days but it also gave no indication as to how he felt about what John and Sherlock had been through. In fact, his mouth was set in a pinched line and to an outsider he may have seemed as if he were simply about to attend a dull meeting. John didn't know whether that made him respect the man or hate him.

"You may as well come in," he croaked when it became clear Mycroft was waiting for a reaction. "There's little chance of me stopping you."

Mycroft gave a curt nod and closed the door behind him before settling himself in the chair once occupied by Lestrade. He clasped his hands in front of him and stared at John as if only just taking him in before letting himself speak. "It is done." At John's questioning look he went on. "Four of the six men we captured are now awaiting trial. The evidence against them is very strong indeed and I guarantee they'll be facing a sentence so severe that daylight will cease to exist for them. The two leaders of the group, well..." he tailed off with an expression that may have been grim satisfaction, if Mycroft were careless enough to let such emotions display themselves. "I've claimed them personally for questioning, shall we say. I promise you that they'll wish they had the same punishment as their friends very soon."

John nodded. He couldn't deny that he felt some closure over knowing the fates of the men who had made his life a living hell, and yet there was a slight twinge of disappointment as well. He remembered all the times he'd promised himself that he would be the one to kill the leader with the large face and felt almost mournful at the fact that the man would die behind closed doors. However, he had a far more pressing matter than that. "What about me?"

Mycroft's eyebrow raised in a fashion that John may have laughed at before, when Sherlock was by his side. "You'll receive the best care I can get for you. There are psychologists I can recommend who are highly trained in dealing with trauma such as yours and your friends-"

"You know what I mean," John snapped, and a surge of anger ran through him as he remembered that this was the first time in his two weeks of freedom that Mycroft was bothering to speak to him, and he seemed intent on avoiding the most crucial thing. "You know what I did. The men kept cameras on us, you searched the place, you can't pretend you don't know."

Mycroft had frozen, and while his mask didn't slip, John could see the colour drain from his face. "What you did," he said in a voice that seemed too wooden to come from a man of such power. "You did because you were desperate and had my brother's best interests at heart. You knew he wouldn't survive much longer in his state. The fault lies with the captors; you will not be held responsible."

John deflated slightly but said nothing. He couldn't tell if it was a relief or not that he wouldn't be punished for what he'd done. Part of him would have welcomed the consequences; they'd have at least justified the crushing blame he placed on himself. Finding he'd had enough of Mycroft's presence he turned back to the window only to find to his disappointment that the rain had stopped.

"If that will be all..." John heard Mycroft rise from his seat and make his way to the door using his umbrella as a walking aid. He'd have been glad to hear the footsteps echo down the long corridors and leave him behind to his thoughts but the man seemed to halt at the door and linger.

"John..." Mycroft's voice was smaller than John had ever heard it and seemed to have the faraway quality of one talking to themselves. John turned out of curiosity to see the proud government official look almost lost, his gaze focussed on nothing in particular and the expensive suit appearing out-of-place for the first time in the years that John had known the man. "My brother is dead."

He said it in the tone of a man only just fully contemplating that fact, as if the last two weeks had been spent constantly working in order to run away from it. John didn't know how he could possibly respond, and settled simply for a feeble "I'm sorry," as if that could possibly make things any better.

Mycroft simply acknowledged him with a nod before, finally, walking away and letting the door slide shut behind him. As much as John had craved the silence before, the return to the monotony of the machines' beeping was something he'd now happily replace with Mrs Hudson's coddling or Lestrade's fatherly concern or, best of all, Sherlock acting like a royal git and demanding John get better at once.

John could have laughed until he cried at that but instead he was left staring at the ceiling, feeling empty and finally accepting that things would never get better.


End file.
